You have to believe me on this one, folks. If you don’t, I can produce a witness!
The other night, I went with a friend to XES, the low-rent but often amusing gay bar in the West 20s. I figured, “It’s somewhere to go and I’ve been there a million times and it’ll be cozy and I can impress my friend with the VIP treatment I’ll surely be accorded and maybe I’ll get a free Diet Coke and…” So wrong!
Some freakazoid was sitting outside on a stool, demanding to see my ID. I guess my puffy, 900-year old puss and hunched over posture weren’t enough proof that I’m of drinking age. (And I don’t even drink anyway!) I gamely produced an ID card, but it wasn’t good enough for this little mastermind (who by the way had a thick foreign accent. Does he even have a green card?). He needed to see a drivers’ license or Passport to prove that I’m not a teen! The fact that my picture is in the dictionary under “Methuselah” somehow offered him no solace.
Defeated, my friend and I had to crawl away and go to another bar, where I didn’t get VIP treatment, but at least I got in!
Of course I’m well aware of the perennial city crackdowns on these places, but could a bar really be raided for letting ME in the door? (And please don’t factor in whether they SHOULD be raided for that.)